


The Labor of our Sleep

by palestream



Category: Originalstory - Fandom
Genre: Amputation, Expiraments, Gen, Gore, OCs - Freeform, Original Story - Freeform, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 13:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palestream/pseuds/palestream
Summary: War leads to rash decisions. Because of it, mistakes were made and fixed. Criminals executed for every slight misstep. But the death tolls were rising. Something had to be done. Project Recycle is suitable to its name. The idea was to take military runaways, and war criminals, reform them into formal soldiers, and return them to the war to replenish the dying population. This is the story of the first six tested in Project Recycle.They will be known as the Deviant Bends. A group that almost became historical.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (There was a Le Mis ref in there)
> 
> This is my first real shot at a story, I hope you enjoy.

The Deviant Bends, part 1

 

It was about 8 am when I finally reached the front of the line. Several people around me were half asleep, or mumbling in low lifeless voices, their breath leaving clouds billowing from their mouths as they spoke. Their hands were shoved firmly in the pockets of their oversized clothes they had put on in an attempt to keep warm. All of them were upset. Their bright coats stood out against the grey stone ground, which was lightly speckled with snow. The man in a blue trench coat, who was pacing along the line of drafted like a wolf stalking a herd of sheep, blended in much better against the dull grey than all the yellows and oranges of the people who had been forced out of bed at four in the morning to stand in line for something they didn't support.

I shoved my hands into my own brightly colored trench coat, my fingers traced the bottom of my pockets, feeling the threads carefully as I stumbled into the small shack where a beady eyed man stood behind a protective wall. It was much warmer inside, sheltered from the wind. 

"ID please." The man's accent was so heavy, one may think it was fake. His eyes resembled a basset hounds, but a snakes at the same time. He smelled of tabacco. 

My fingers moved from the delicate lacing in my pocket to the cold plastic card, and folded smooth papers beside it. I pulled them both out with one hand, setting the pink and yellow papers down, and the ID on top. The man's pale fingers pick the card up. He studies the picture with those creepy eyes of his, then looks at me. 

"You are Saddy McRae?" 

That's a new one for me.

"It's..." I pause to clear my throat, seeing it's been a while since I used my voice, and my exhaustion I'd making my throat sore. "Its pronounced Say-dee.." I say. The man lifts his eyes. 

"Do you think I give a damn?"

I hesitate before slowly shaking my head, my scarf rubs against my chin as I do. 

"You're old enough to be a soldier." The man says after a long pause. "Please remove all extra clothing such as your coat, hat, shoes-"

"Hold on sir...I'm seventeen. That's under the legal age. I'm not old enough to be a soldier," I interrupt him. My voice is more stable when I speak than before.

His basset hound eyes roll back to the ID card. "Youll be turning eighteen in three days. Which is when you'll be arriving to Camp Nerci. Therefore you're of legal age. Now as I was saying. Please remove all extra clothing."

My heart sinks in my chest like an icy stone in a pond. This wasn't fair. Not at all. But it seemed things were getting desperate for Sendania. They were recruiting underage people at this point. I sigh and pull off my hat...then unrap my scarf...then next the two coats I put on, and my overshirt. When I'm done I'm left in a tank top and sleep shorts...which are about three inches above my knee. My short brown hair is tickling my forehead, and the room that was once warm relief is now cold to my skin. 

The man studies me carefully with his eyes. I hate him for some reason. Not because he's sending me in underage, but because it's his fault that I'm going to be sent to the Hell on Earth military camp. 

What he says next makes me hate him even more.  
"Are you sure you're a female?"

He must notice the wild flash that probably appears in my green eyes, because he lifts his hand up so it's sitting on his palm as if to wave off my anger. Without any warning the camera flashes and someone shoves me into the next tent without letting me get my belongings back.

In the next tent I'm handed a uniform that's not very charming, but at least I won't be in my sleep clothes in the snow. I put it on with several questioning eyes prying at me as if they expect me to pull oit a grenade. Can't say I blame them. This gate alone has had six suicide terrorist attacks in the last week involving bombs. But my gut tells me they're searching to find out the same question basset hound man asked me. If I'm really a female. Disgusting. 

 

 

 

"You're....Milo Ryder...?" The woman asks, lifting her head to study me. I shrug in response to her question, my loose clothes rub against each other in a way that makes me uncomfortable when I do. She stares a while longer but it's hard to tell what she's staring at because her glasses are reflecting the light on her desk. Her cheeks seem to be weighing her face into a frown.

"I knew I'd get the stupid ones...." she remarks. 

"What makes you think I'm stupid?"

She ignores my question very obviously. "You're nineteen?"

I nod. And if she honestly believes that I am, she's the idiot. I'm seventeen. Not even close to eighteen yet. But she doesnt know that. And according to my ID, she has no evidence to say otherwisw. Because the print on that plastic cars says nineteen as well. And at this point I'm worried, standing here in a tee shirt and shorts, that my youth like appearance when I'm not buried under jackets, is a dead giveaway.

"Proceed." She mumbles. I sag with relief.

Would be nice if people gave you enough time to do as they ask rather than having a guard basically throw you into the next section of the post. A uniform is thrown at my chest and falls to the soaked floor. I scowl. 

"Really man? You get like two people through here every hour and all you have to do is hand them a uniform. Your job isn't that hard to-"

My words are cut off by an earsplitting noise that sounds like thunder. The ground lurches and I fall heavily onto my shoulder. Screaming is heard clearly outside and before I can even get on my feet, two sets of hands grab me by the shoulders and start to drag me out of the tent. The freezing asphalt scrapes my bare legs and I regret arguing instead of putting on the uniform. 

When they pull me out I can see the wall that was on the left side of the station has a huge gaping hole with stress marks down the sides. I struggle to get to my feet so I can keep some skin on my legs as I realize the station was a victim to yet another bombing. Next thing I know I'm pulled into a building with shiny white floors and matching walls. The two hands drop me and as I go to make sure I'm not bleeding from lost skin onto these oh so shiny floors, the barrel of a rifle appears less than an inch away from my nose. 

"Remain calm until you are given the all clear." The guard who's aiming the weapon at me says.

Remaining calm when someone is holding a gun to your face is kind of hard to do. 

Remaining quiet is even harder.

"What happened? What was that?" I ask, genuinely shaken by what just happened.

A man storms into the building about then and answers my question. "Another suicide bomber. His belongings have been given the all clear. He's not involved."

Before I can demand an apology and a bandaid for my legs which are scratched to Hell, the soaked uniform I left behind is thrown into my face and the soldier hisses at me. "Get dressed."


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next two soldiers...

Part 2

 

 

The trains were crammed but not badly. I had enough elbow room to hold a book and enough light from the lanterns to read. That was all I cared for. Somehow through the rough searching process I managed to keep my ID and the book. It had my name printed in neat cursive on the front cover. "Sebastian S. Dernmal." I occasionally flipped to the cover just to rub the imprint of my name in my father's handwriting. He gave me this when I was twelve. He died two years later. In the very war I was on my way to. I kept reading the first sentance of the page I was on. "To flee is to lose honor, to die is to lose worth, and to survive is to risk being forgotten." 

The book still smelled new and, when I died in this war, I wanted to be buried with it. Since I had no children to pass it onto.

It was a story about a man who lived alone in the mountains, and tamed wild horses. He was shunned by the village in the valley for being alone. One day the skies sent a horse made of white flame, that brought fire and devastation when it spooked and fled in blind terror. The villagers called upon the man and begged him to tame the beast and save the village. The man ends up dying, but befriending the sky horse and ending the creatures terror of this world, saving the village. He was remembered as a hero for centuries.

Being remembered... that was desireable. But nearly impossible. Thousands died a day. All were forgotten in moments. Me. I would be nothing but a grain of wheat in a burning field. There would be nothing to remember other than the book my father gave me that I'd clutch as a rotting corpse in the ground. When being remembered brought me no comfort, this thought did.

 

 

 

 

A guy on my cart had a banjo. A freaking banjo. And it was".....I'm really sorry Jensin...but I won't be around very long.." a great distraction from those thoughts of imminent death. He played several cheery songs and the soldiers all clapped along and requested more. No one else could hear so there were no complaints. What a cheery bunch. 

"You! What's your name?" The raspy old soldier asked.   
"Eli Eaton!" I called back cheerfully. "Name a song!" He yelled.   
"The Valley of the Wicked!"

And the whole cart went up in song again. It wasn't until we reached the camp when the dark depressing mood hit. The man set the banjo under the bench and his face grew solemn. He didn't speak. Which made everyone else worried.

The door slid open and the cold snowy wind baffled us all. The cart had gotten fairly warm. Now all the warmth had been swept out into the cold, long lost, like the color in many of the men's faces. The tall man standing behind the door brought us all to somberness. Sergeant Ete. A well known man for the terror he creates. His job dealt more with war criminals than strategies most times....which made us all wonder why he was here. 

"I need to see these soldiers. Richard Green. Farley Daniel. Eli Eaton..."

My blood runs cold as I step forward with the man who had the banjo, and his friend."

"You three are under arrest for war crimes."

My eyes must have turned to the size of saucers. "What crimes?" I asked. Before I can process it a loud snap fills the air and pain explodes in my face as Ete punches me with his massive fists. I crumple to my knees and let out a scream at the blood running down my face. It hurts like hell and my ears ring from shock. I'm certain it's broken.

The old man who had the banjo reaches over to help me but Ete grabs him and throws him off the ramp which is nearly seven feet feet Ron the ground. The man into the snowy slosh like mud and doesn't move. His companion screams and runs to his aide, and sharp gunfire goes off. There's a second thud and he too falls from the ramp. Just like that I had witnessed my two first deaths. Ete looks down at me and grabs my shoulder with a massive hand, and yanks me up by my uniform. "Shame. Looks like I'll have more time to spend with you now. We'll be good friends. Move." He shoves me along the ramp and I stumble down it. When I reach the bottom another soldier grabs my arms and forces them from my bleeding nose, behind my back, and handcuffs them there. My mind is spinning and the ground is shaking. This was a dream wasn't it? Wasn't it? 

"Welcome, first Deviant." Ete says. "May God have mercy on your soul."


End file.
